“I think it is best if we avoid the use of magic, don’t you?”
“I heartily agree, Watson, but there is no need for sorcery,” Holmes said, then raised one arm above his head and commanded, “Dead of the Dartmoor bogs, attend me!”
A milky light grew from the darkness just between us, then another and two more. Soon, Holmes was surrounded by a quartet of wisps.
“They are ghosts?” I said, aghast.
“Well, most of them are just luminous methane,” Holmes said, “but yes, some are spirits. Have no fear, Watson, they mean us no harm. They are victims of fortune and in their tragic tales, the diverse history of the people of Dartmoor may be read.”
“Really?”
“Without a doubt. See here…” Holmes selected the wisp hovering nearest to me and announced, “This is Horrace Dunne. He was a farmer in the fifteenth century. One night he got drunk, wandered into the bogs and drowned. This one is Guinnwilfe—an ancient druid. He got drunk one night, wandered into a bog and drowned.”
“Hm… What about that little one?”
“Saddest story of them all, Watson. His name was William. Just a babe when he died. He woke one night and could not find his mother. In searching, poor Willy wandered into the bogs and drowned.”
“The history of the Dartmoor people may not be quite so ‘diverse’ as you promised, Holmes. How about the last one?”
“Oh, that’s Willy’s mum. She got drunk one night, wandered into a bog and—”
“Yes, yes. I know.”
Despite their unhappy state (and their penchant, while living, for alcoholism) the wisps did an admirable job. They bobbed merrily beside us, lighting our way until we reached the main road. Once there, I encouraged Holmes to dismiss them. I didn’t relish the notion of local farmers spotting Holmes and me, using four of the area’s ancient dead as torches.
It is fortunate we went without them. We’d gone less than a half mile and were just nearing Merripit House when the distant sound of screaming came to our ears. At first I saw nothing, but a moment later a figure broke over the rise of a hill. He was running at full tilt, his hands clawing at his face and chest. His eyes burned as if made of flame and, when he opened his mouth to scream, I saw that it seemed full of fire too. The man—who likely had more present concerns than where he was headed—was running directly towards the steep, rocky slope of the hill, where it fell away next to the road. I was about to warn that he was running towards a cliff, but as his whole body crested the rise, the moonlight caught him and I saw what he was wearing: a horrid blue Canadian suit.
“Sir Henry!” I cried. I sprinted towards him as fast as I could go. I had no chance of reaching him before he came to the precipitous drop and plummeted down to the road, but I ran nonetheless. Only a few steps before the drop-off, his face and hands suddenly burst into flame. I gasped. There was no external source of ignition visible; rather it seemed as if the heat came from within his body. This was borne out by the fact that only the man burst into flame; his clothes did not (more’s the pity). Screaming and flailing, he fell from the top of the cliff and landed with a thud, just a few feet from the road. I was at his side less than a minute later, but what could I do? Every inch of the man was burnt to bloody cinders.
I cursed myself for leaving him. I balled my fists and struck the earth and my own breast, but what help was that to poor Sir Henry? Suddenly, Warlock was with me, shaking me.
“Watson! Watson, damn you! Get off the road! Stapleton is coming!”
Warlock grabbed me by the collar and hauled me away from Sir Henry, towards the face of the cliff, and clapped a hand across my mouth. I tried to wiggle free, but he pressed us into a little hollow in the cliff and whispered, “Quiet, Watson, please. Too much noise and you might earn us the same treatment Sir Henry got. Hush. Our enemy is coming.”
At first I heard nothing. Yet a sound gradually grew, over the soft hiss of wind. Footsteps. Someone was running towards us. Presently, I could hear his gulping breaths. As he neared the top of the bluff, he slowed. He came to the very edge and began pacing back and forth, above us. Though we were hidden in our depression in the rock, I could see his shadow upon the road. He leaned out over the drop-off and clapped his hands. There was a strange rustling noise, then a woman’s voice asked, “What should we do with him?”
A second shadow appeared next to Stapleton’s and I nearly cried out in surprise. I was sure I’d heard only one person run up. Where had she come from? It’s as if she’d just dropped out of the sky. Yet, if her arrival was mysterious, her identity was clear. It was Beryl Stapleton, without a doubt. She sounded glum.
“Do?” Her brother’s voice rang with triumph. “We shall do nothing, idiot! Do you think we want to bring attention to ourselves by being the ones to discover the body? He’s right in the road. And look at the state of him. It’s perfect! The first local to drive this road in the morning cannot help but see him. When they find out who it is, will there be any question that it’s the hound that did him in? The only thing left for us to do is head home and wait for some neighbor to bring us the ‘terrible’ news.”
He laughed. Beryl sighed. “Good-bye, Sir Henry,” she said.
I heard them move away, over the moor. Holmes and I waited, motionless and quiet, long after they were gone.
“Let’s go,” said Holmes. “I don’t fancy being caught out here in the open by Stapleton.”
“Wait,” I said. “There’s one more thing we need to do.”
“Eh?”
“If Stapleton wants that body discovered, I say we had better take pains to see that it isn’t.”
“We haven’t got time to bury him, Watson.”
“No. I know.”
I took off my belt and looped it under Sir Henry’s shoulders, to pull him off the road. I drew him around the hill, to a little ravine, and left him there. He deserved better, but I hadn’t the time or the energy. I’m sure Holmes and I left enough footprints and signs of our passing that a competent detective could have linked us to the body.
How fortunate that Dartmoor had no competent detectives.
We made our way back to the road. I had many questions, but Holmes insisted we hurry along. Only after we cleared the turnoff between Grimpen and Baskerville Hall did Holmes grumble, “How did the villain manage it, do you think?”
“I have no idea,” I puffed, quite out of breath. “Some form of accelerant in the victim’s blood, I suppose. But how did he ignite it?”
“Not the burning part!” Holmes said. “I understand the burning part. It was a curse, Watson, and not the work of an amateur. No, what confuses me is how he knew where Sir Henry would be. How did he know where to attack?”
“He invited Sir Henry over, to play cards.”
“Dashed clever of him,” Holmes grunted. “I must say, the simplest ways are best, eh?”
“I should say so,” I grumbled. “Look how well he has carried it off. He’s right: the folk around here will only blame the hound. I wonder what claim Stapleton has concocted to the Baskerville fortune.”
“It’s not the fortune he’s after,” Holmes said, “but the house itself.”
Even as he said it, the house came into view and, in a few moments more, we were there. I pushed open the heavy front door only to surprise Perkins, the groom, who happened to be passing at that moment.
“Dr. Watson!” he cried. “You’re back! Where have you been? And who is this with you?”
“This is my colleague, Warlock Holmes,” I told him. “I have been out investigating all day and I have some heavy news: Sir Henry is dead.”
“What?” stammered Perkins. “That isn’t possible!”
“It is true, I’m afraid. Burned to death. Warlock and I saw it happen.”
Perkins stared at me as if he did not understand, or thought I was making an off-color joke. I heard the shuffling of feet and the tapping of a cane behind him.
“Well, you can count me among the fellows who are pretty surprised
to hear it,” said Sir Henry, limping into view behind his groom.
“Sir Henry!” I cried and rushed to clasp his hand. “By Jove, I am glad to see you!”
“Hullo, Watson. And good to see you again, Mr. Holmes,” he grinned. “Funny thing: you were so late coming back, Watson, that we were starting to worry something had happened to you. We were just about to start the search.”
“No!” I shouted. “You must not go out there, Sir Henry! Things have come to a head. We must hide you. He thinks you dead; we must use that to our advantage.”
“He? He who? And why is everyone so sure I’m all burnt up? What’s going on?”
I held my answer until Perkins was dismissed, then Warlock and I filled Sir Henry in on the events of the evening. When we got to the part about the burning man, Sir Henry stopped me to say, “Well that’s amazing. And unfortunate. But why’d you think it was me?”
“Well he… he had a suit, just like your blue one and I… I didn’t suppose there could be two. Not here, in a civilized country.”
Sir Henry bristled a bit, ready to fight for the honor of his once-beloved suit, but finally muttered, “Well probably there ain’t. But I don’t have that suit any more. I gave it to Barrymore.”
“Barrymore?” I said. “No, it couldn’t have been him. He’s almost a foot taller than you. So… Wait a moment… Why would he even want a suit of yours? It would never fit him. And why would he be out upon the moor?”
My poor, cluttered head reeled with the strangeness of it. My hunt, Holmes’s sudden appearance, the story of his youth, the murder and then recovery of Sir Henry—all these contrived to numb my senses. I had to take a moment to breathe deeply. To concentrate. To focus my thoughts. As soon as I did, I muttered, “Oh…”
“Oh? What do you mean, ‘oh’?” Sir Henry asked.
“I think our little problem with the Notting Hill Murderer may be at an end. I suppose we had best tell Eliza.”
“I don’t follow,” said Sir Henry.
“Barrymore is taller than you,” I explained, “but Selden isn’t. Well… wasn’t. I think Barrymore was happy to have your old clothes, so he could send Selden to South America in something other than prison rags. He must have handed your suit off, earlier today. Stapleton, having seen you in it only this morning, would have assumed Selden to be you. After all, he expected to see you on that road. He invited you to cards, didn’t he? He’d even hinted how much Beryl would enjoy seeing you in that very suit. In the moonlight, Stapleton would not have been able to distinguish his victim’s face, but the suit must have stood out a mile off.”
“That all makes sense,” Sir Henry agreed, “except the part where Stapleton can make men burst into flames. Are you sure you saw what you think you saw?”
“He did,” Warlock interjected. “There is much we have not told you, Sir Henry, not to keep you in the dark or abuse your trust, but because it is the kind of thing most men would be unwilling to believe.”
Warlock then gave an account so full and so shockingly honest about his and Stapleton’s abilities that I found myself wincing. Never before had he been this forthcoming with the secrets of magic.
“Strange stuff,” Sir Henry said, shaking his head. “It’s all a bit much… Even if Stapleton can roast a fellow alive, why would he come after my uncle and me?”
“Well, Warlock hasn’t got so far as explaining all that yet,” I told him, “but there is apparently a good exp…”
I trailed off, for my eyes had come to rest upon the picture of Sir Hugo—that same one I had remarked on the night we first arrived at Baskerville Hall. My mouth hung open. What a fool I had been.
What an utter fool.
Warlock had said things would be made clear to me once I reached the Hall…
Holmes began to laugh. He clapped me on the back and said, “Don’t blame yourself, Watson; how could you have guessed?”
“Guessed what? I don’t understand!” Sir Henry complained.
I grasped him by the shoulders and turned him to the painting of the foppish cavalier.
“Who is that?” I asked him.
“Sir Hugo Baskerville. The frame says.”
“Yes,” I said, running to the picture. I threw my arms up on either side of the face to cover the long black ringlets. “But if I cover his hair and ask you to imagine him without that silly moustache, who is it?”
“Well, I don’t know, it’s… Hey! It’s Stapleton!” Sir Henry cried. “How come Stapleton is the spittin’ image of Sir Hugo?”
Holmes gave a wry laugh. “Because Stapleton is Sir Hugo.”
14
THAT NIGHT, IN SIR HENRY’S ROOM, WE HELD OUR WAR council.
“Here is the story, as I figure it,” said Holmes. “Three years ago, Sir Hugo found a way to break back into our world, bringing with him Bhehr-Lylegnag and Foofy. Foofy was either spotted, or his baying re-stoked the local legend of the hound. Sir Hugo either earned or conjured enough funds to take Merripit House and adopt the persona of Jack Stapleton. He passed Bhehr-Lylegnag off as his sister and began laying designs to reclaim Baskerville Hall.”
“Why does he want it so badly?” I asked.
Holmes gave a grim laugh. “Because he’s 285 years old and he’s had his throat torn out! He needs the magic of the ley-lines to keep himself alive. Yes, there’s one that runs under Merripit House, but how long can just one line maintain him? Therein lies the great threat of Hugo Baskerville: he’s unsustainable. If he gets this house, in only a few years’ time he’ll be spending every night down in that great hall, begging favors from all five lines just to keep himself alive. It won’t be long until the outsiders crack through and the world of man is overrun.”
“Holmes, this is slightly off-topic…” I said.
“Yes?”
“But you seem to be growing horns.”
Sir Henry was thrilled. “Get over here! I want to touch them.”
Holmes looked annoyed. “Horns? Then… Oh, dash it! I thought I was sweating!”
“No. Blood, I’m afraid,” I told him. “Here, take my handkerchief.”
“Thank you, Watson,” said Holmes. He mopped at the crimson trickles that seeped from his brow and complained, “That’s not even the worst of it. Have you seen my right hand?”
“Well… you’ve had it in your pocket.”
“Would you like to see why?”
He withdrew it. Both Sir Henry and I recoiled. I think my host very nearly vomited some of the brandies he’d been downing all night.
“Yes… erm… as a doctor, I can confidently state that your fingers have all twisted themselves around backwards. Yes, they… they seem to flex the other way, now. From a medical standpoint, most interesting. From an aesthetic standpoint, I would be most appreciative if you put that horrific mess back in your pocket, please.”
“What is it doing?” Sir Henry asked.
“Can’t you tell? It’s getting sinister. It is trying to become a left hand. It’s jealous. With all this evil magic flying about—what a poor day to be a right hand.”
“So… it might be wise if your stay was brief?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, Watson. Yet I fear my presence may be a secondary concern.”
“Bad enough to wreck the world, though.”
“Yes, but still secondary. If Sir Hugo takes the Hall, all is lost.”
I let all I’d learned that evening roll through my head. Something seemed out of place, but it took me a few moments to recognize it.
“Oh! Holmes! There is a flaw in our understanding! If Sir Hugo only returned three years ago, he cannot be our enemy! Don’t you see: the Baskervilles have been hunted by the hound for generations.”
“Bah,” scoffed Holmes. “Local superstition and imagination.”
“Hmm… Much as I would like to agree, Holmes, I know better. What about the death of Winthrop Baskerville in the dressing room?”
“What? Oh… er… can we not talk about that? It ce
rtainly wasn’t the hound. Nor was it Sir Hugo.”
“You cannot be sure of that, Holmes.”
“Actually, I can.”
“No. I have been to that room, Holmes. I have seen evidence of the attack!”
“What evidence? Trust me, Watson. You weren’t there when he died! I was! And I can tell you—”
“Wait! You were there?”
“Of course I was! I… er… oh…” Holmes began to pale. He stared nervously at his feet for a moment, then turned to Sir Henry. “I am afraid that I may have killed your great-great-great-great grandfather.”
“No!” cried Sir Henry, more impressed than angered.
“Holmes! Why did you do it?” I demanded.
“Well, I didn’t mean to! I told you I came back once, to try to close the lines, remember? And I told you I did not succeed. Did you ever stop to consider, Watson, that the most likely reason for my failure might be that I climbed through what I supposed to be the window of an unoccupied room, only to find some lecherous old coot waiting for his mistress?”
“But, Holmes, I saw the mark of the hound upon the floor.”
“I used a grappling hook.”
“And the violence of it all… Have you seen the wall where Winthrop Baskerville clawed at it?”
“No, I scratched the wall, Watson. And you would, too, if you had some naked old grandpa trying to strangle you in a bathtub. By the gods, the man was a terror! Honestly, if it hadn’t been for a few bolts of demon-fire from my good friend Azazel, I don’t think I’d be standing here today.”
“Azazel,” I mused. “That’s why there was so little of Sir Winthrop left, I imagine.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Watson. I had to throw all my clothes away. Never could get all the Baskerville out of them.”
“Well done!” cried Sir Henry. “That’ll show ’em!”
“Er… but I killed your great-great-great-great grandfather,” Holmes reminded him.
“Well… yeah, I guess… but if you grow up a Baskerville, you get used to certain things. Whenever you hear stories about your ancestors you know you’re going to end up rooting against ’em.”
The Hell-Hound of the Baskervilles Page 24
